The first time they’d come here, fresh off their honeymoon, Primo’s sister had taunted Alessandro for not carrying her over the threshold. Alessandro had dismissed the remark, stating it was his grandfather’s house and not appropriate.
Octavia hadn’t said anything, but Alessandro hadn’t performed the whimsical ceremony at the town house, either, and his overlooking of the gesture had felt like a put-down. It had been the first hard landing into reality after the giddy spell of lovemaking and basking in his attention. She’d never been able to walk through this door without thinking of his dismissive tone and how harshly it reminded her that their marriage was a business transaction, not something based on sentiment or affection.
And here she was again. Not Octavia, the woman he loved and carried into his family home, but the consigned wife he’d pressured to accompany him. If that wasn’t lukewarm enough, she nearly caught frostbite from the group that greeted them. She nervously scanned the faces, so many of them Primo’s closest relations, including Primo’s parents.
Was it paranoid, now that Primo’s subterfuges were exposed, to see all this occupancy of the castello in a new light? She took a half step closer to her husband, disturbed.
One of Alessandro’s spinster aunts, a flighty wisp of a woman who preferred her paints over just about anything else and usually took no interest in enigmatic things like children, was the first to speak.
“Handsome. Like his father,” she pronounced after a brief look at Lorenzo.
Primo’s eldest sister, Donna, who had moved in with her teenage son last year said, “Don’t be too sure, Zia. Perhaps this baby mix-up was an attempt to hide the fact neither of the infants are Ferrantes. Did you think of that, Sandro?”
Barely a minute in and the claws were out. Of course, it was to be expected that Primo’s parents and sisters would defend their kin, but Octavia was struck by the open enmity in her remark. She and Donna might not have been friends, but they hadn’t been adversaries. She pressed even closer to her husband and felt his grip on her hand tighten.
“He’s ours,” Alessandro confirmed, low and sure, practically daring anyone to contradict him.
“Bring him to me,” Ermanno Ferrante said with an imperious wave of his hand.
He wasn’t a tall man. His children and grandchildren towered over him, but he was still spry and sharp-eyed despite his weathered skin and steel-gray hair. He sat with the arrogantly regal posture that Alessandro must have learned from him, because they both had the ability to command a room with a look.
Alessandro tugged Octavia with him as he carried Lorenzo across. She could feel Ermanno’s gaze drilling into her as she approached. He was capable of the same force and power that Alessandro possessed, but what was he looking for? Artifice? Proof? Guilt?
“Nonno, your great-grandson Lorenzo,” Alessandro said, leaning down to kiss his grandfather and set the baby in the old man’s arms.
Octavia would have kissed him in greeting, too, but the old man bent his head to give the baby a long, thorough study.
Behind her, she heard a few feet shuffle as everyone awaited his judgment.
“He looks like your father,” he said with a glance up to Alessandro. Then he nodded his head toward the side table. “Bring the photo.”
Octavia’s knees nearly gave in as she moved to fetch the black-and-white of Alessandro’s grandmother holding her firstborn and she had to agree, there was a strong similarity in the babies’ sleeping features. It was bittersweet to see the resemblance, making her see her son’s place in this family while reinforcing that she couldn’t take him away from it.
“You’ll understand if we’re not happy,” Viviana, Primo’s youngest sister, said.
“Babies make everyone happy.” Alessandro pivoted, voice light with contradiction, but his tone held an edge that put a knot in Octavia’s stomach.
“We’re not happy with the things you’ve done, Sandro,” Viviana clarified, chin coming up in belligerence.
“I’ve done exactly what I’m supposed to do—react to threats and limit damage,” he said without apology. “Nonno, Octavia and the baby need to rest. I’ll settle them in our apartment, then we can talk in the office. Zio, you may join us if you like. I imagine you have a few questions.”
Primo’s father, Giacomo, made a noise as if he had a lot more than a few questions about his son being arrested and fired and expelled from the family residences. Octavia felt the blister of hostility off everyone in the room, much of it aimed at her.
So she bit back saying that she wasn’t that tired. The past few nights had been rough ones sleepwise, but her incision was itchy rather than tender and physically she was starting to feel like her old self.